Blood and Fire
by Cerridwen7777
Summary: In which we see Dean's final moments...Rated for gore and language.
1. Blood

**I'm concerned about how much fun this was to write. Please review.**

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Blood. Thick and satiny, gorgeous and crimson, the color of life itself. The sight of it can be hypnotic, shocking yet thrilling. Even the taste of it, salt and copper, is strangely addictive. There's a reason that a cut finger migrates directly to the mouth. There's something primal to it. 

Dean had always found a rather obscene, secret pleasure in seeing his own blood beading and rolling from a wound. It was a thrilling, potent reminder that he was, indeed, still alive, despite all the odds against it. Not to mention the possibility of another badass scar.

But now, Dean found nothing comforting at all about what was pouring out of him. He gave a panicked little gurgle as his breath was cut off by a mouthful of blood, and he sputtered it out, feeling the hot droplets spatter his face and run down his cheeks in little trails, like war paint.

_Please God, let it be worth it. Let Sam live a long life; let him be safe and happy. Don't let him throw it away by looking for revenge like I have…_

That's what it had all been about, after all. Dean had spent his whole life trying to avenge his mother. Then his father needed to be revenged. Every hellish being that Dean blasted was one step closer to making that evil, yellow-eyed sumbitch pay for spilling Winchester blood, for making Dean's little brother grow up without a mom. And now that his reason for hunting was dead, you'd think that the game would be over, that the mission was fulfilled. But no. Now Sam needed saving. Would it ever end?

Dean had always thought that when he finally died, there would _be_ an end. An end to the watchfulness, to the pricking nerves, to the sleepless nights. An end to that terrible knowledge of what lurked in the dark. He would finally be able to _rest._

But now. Now he would spend his eternity in the Pit, no doubt facing horrors he'd never imagined. No rest. Only torment.

Not that he would have done anything differently. He didn't want to die, of course, not when there was wine, women and song to be had. But Sammy needed saving, and as always, Dean did what he had to do. No regrets there. He'd do it again in a flash. Even knowing what would come.

Another wet cough sent a geyser of blood splashing across his chin, and Dean couldn't suppress a small moan as pain blazed across his abdomen. Of course that crimson-eyed bitch couldn't take him easy, take him in his sleep. She was going to make him suffer, the whore.

No, it wasn't her. Sam had splashed her brains over an asphalt crossroad. It wasn't her; it was someone bigger, someone meaner, someone that Dean had hurt over and over again. It was big evil, bigger than anything any Winchester had ever seen, and it wanted to hear him scream before the end.

Dean stared up at the sky, his eyes suddenly hot and wet. How many nights like this had he seen, with clouds scudding across an orange moon, with the sound of the fall wind, the leaves scrabbling in the trees? Twin tears broke free and traced over his cheekbones to tickle his ears, feeling for all the world like more blood.

Sam thought that Dean didn't give a crap about dying, that Dean was going go softly. Sam wanted him to rage, rage against the dying of the light, or however that fruity poem went. And Dean wanted to fight, he did. But he was so fucking tired. And if this was the only way to save Sam, who he loved more than he ever loved anyone (though he'd tongue-kiss Ash before he'd ever admit it), then so be it.

Another flame of pain seared Dean's gut and he choked out another gout of blood.

Another tear teetered on his lashes and he blinked it away.

His last harvest moon's warm light filled his vision and he caught a shaky breath.

_Please, one more minute. One more glimpse of the night, one more breath of air before I go._

But there were no more.


	2. Fire

**This makes ME sad, and I'm the one who wrote it. Please review. :(**

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He knew. 

Even before Sam skidded to a stop and fell to his knees in the dirt at his brother's side, he knew that there wasn't hope. His mind screamed a million denials, but his heart couldn't lie to him. Dean was dying.

Stone and dirt ground into Sam's knees like broken teeth, tearing his jeans and bloodying his shin, but he didn't notice. How could he notice when he was looking down at a sight he knew would haunt him forever?

Dean's eyes were half-lidded and glazed, fixed in a far-off stare. His chin was painted with bright arterial blood, though Sam could not see any other sign of injury or wound. Dean was so still and pale that Sam felt icy terror wrap its fingers around his chest. When Dean made a little gurgle and spat out a mouthful of blood, Sam's heart leapt into his throat.

"Come on, man, don't do this…" Sam's words were thick and slurry with shock and fear. He grasped Dean's hand, horrified at how cold the flesh already was. Dean's pulse was thready and weak, his skin clammy. "Come on…don't let it end this way."

Dean gave no sign that he even heard Sam's plea. His eyes were set on the sky above the forest clearing in which he lay. His body shuddered as he coughed out another mouthful of blood, his hands clenching convulsively, and he let out a small, weak moan. But his blank face didn't change.

Sam bit down around a scream as two tears slowly trickled down Dean's jaw and into his hair. With a shaking hand, Sam softly smoothed the tears away.

"Please." The word was no more than a whisper, but it was all that Sam could muster around the huge lump that throbbed in his chest. _If you die, how am I supposed to build a pyre for you?_

How many times had they used fire to send a spirit back to hell? How could he use it now against Dean? Fire…it was so final, _too _final, like closing a door you could never open again. Could he really stand and watch the flames lick at the body of his only blood, his best friend, the person he loved most?

Dean had always loved the idea of the pyre. Said it was just right for a warrior, to go out in a blaze. Never mind the practicality of it, it was _romantic, _goddammit.

Sam's breath stopped as Dean gave another quiver. His breaths were coming slower now, wet little hiccups lurching in his chest. A new sheen of tears welled in Dean's eyes, and Sam's followed suit, then Dean blinked. Just once, one small motion, but it was enough for hope to explode in Sam. "Come on, man, I know you're there…please keep fighting, bro. I need you…I love you…please…"

And then, softly, gently, he was gone. There wasn't any ray of light, no soft music to highlight it. There was only the subtle relaxation of his body, the quiet final exhalation. A silent end to a turbulent life.

Then it seemed that every tear that Sam had ever held back, every sob he had ever bitten down on in his life, escaped him all at once. If anyone had been around to hear the sound of his cry, the hair on their necks would have stood at attention, for it was the sound of complete and utter desolation.

Sam dropped his head until it rested on Dean's still chest. The soft orange light of the moon highlighted Dean's features, as though he was already on the pyre, and Sam gave another wail of complete despair.

"Dean…what should I do?"


End file.
